Bandwagon

by Andrew Fish

ping. Behind them, the elevator doors began slowly to open.

  27

  There has always been an element of danger being a musician: from the self-inflicted harm of the seemingly mandatory rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle, to the excoriations of a disapproving audience both success and failure have carried their risks.

  There is, however, a certain surreal level of risk that can only be achieved within the heady and hedonistic environments of the artistic underground – the bands prepared to do anything to get paying gigs, and prepared to use the money to pay to do anything. These are the true spirits of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll; they are also the acts most vulnerable to that most virulent of musical entities – the music mogul – and the concatenation of lifestyle and management can often be terrifyingly explosive.

  Perhaps the most extreme instance of this, certainly the best documented, occurred with the band Scabz, a ‘rock resurgance’ group on the planet of Hamal. To this day they remain the only band to publicly – and semi-musically – have called for the execution of their head of state on his birthday; and they are also the only band to have assassinated their own lead singer as a tax dodge.

  Accountancy on Hamal had always been a fairly cutthroat affair – the first action of one global finance minister was to suggest killing anyone who sneezed to save on state sick benefit spending – but Scabz took things to a whole new level, destroy instruments after each gig in order to claim on the insurance19, smashing up hotel rooms in order to claim compensation for alleged attacks by groupies, and even burning down the government revenue office in order to avoid sending in their tax returns.

  Lead singer Jimmy Fetid was probably the worst of them all. Even as a child he had been accused of planting bombs in post-boxes as an excuse not to send people birthday money. Matters came to a head, however, on Fetid’s thirtieth birthday. After a particularly heavy post-gig party20, Jimmy went through an emotional breakdown. After several months in therapy he then emerged a completely reformed character.

  To the horror of his band-mates, the man who had once equated banking with masturbation began saving his money, making careful investments for the future and diligently sending his tax returns to the newly reconstructed government offices.

  Easily swayed by their manager – who had already persuaded them that 95 percent agent’s commission was a bargain – the other band members were led to believe that it was only a matter of time before the Government realised that the lead singer wasn’t paid a thousand times as much as his band-mates and sent in the revenue officers armed with assault rifles.

  The solution was both painfully obvious and obviously painful. Given technical advice by their manager, the band set about laying a subtle, yet fatal trap for their friend. Leaving home on his motorcycle one sunny morning, Fetid found himself unexpectedly run over by a freight train travelling along a railway line that had only been opened three hours earlier.

  Perhaps it was remorse, perhaps a further marketing suggestion, but the band’s next single was a eulogy for their late lamented friend and partner. The vast publicity generated by the death, coupled with the use of Fetid’s decapitated head on the record sleeve, ensured the record was a smash hit.

  Unfortunately, however, it was also Scabz’ last hit. One thing their manager had failed to consider was that Fetid was, in the end, the only member of the group with any talent. The band sank into obscurity, much to the relief of accountants everywhere.

  Elsewhere in the galaxy, music is perhaps a slightly less psychotic profession, but there are still enough stories of stalkers, psychotic killers and other near misses to send any sensitive musician to bed with nightmares.

  The tableau held as the elevator doors began to open. Ben still stood at the front of the group, Nutter standing sorrowfully beside him; Riff stood slightly off to the side of the corridor, his gaze levelly but intensely surveying the scene; Vid and Keys stood nervously to the rear. All eyes except Riff’s were trained on the opening doors.

  The seconds passed painfully like a slow and badly executed attempt at a dramatic drum solo. The doors slipped back to reveal… Tony, composed, smartly dressed and polishing one of his shoes on the back of his leg. He looked up at the ensemble, unmoved by the obvious air of tension, then pushed his way to the front of the group.

  ‘Good evening gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I trust that there isn’t a problem.’

  ‘This gentleman,’ Ben used the word with obvious distaste, ‘has been threatening us.’

  Tony sank his hands into his trouser pockets and eyed the man up and down. ‘Indeed? That would seem to be a rather antisocial habit.’

  ‘It’s more of an occupation than a habit,’ said the man in the suede jacket. ‘I’m contracted to collect the two robots at the back.’

  Tony withdrew his hands from his pockets and nodded. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m afraid you must have made a mistake.’

  ‘No mistake. I don’t make mistakes.’

  ‘You have this time. You see, these happen to be musicians that I represent.’

  The man shrugged. ‘I saw the concert,’ he said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it wasn’t bad. Pretty good, really.’

  ‘And you still want to break up the band?’ said Ben.

  ‘I’ve got my orders,’ the man snapped back.

  ‘Orders.’ Tony nodded. ‘Yes, I understand that, but look closer. Are you sure that you aren’t making a mistake?’

  ‘You think I’d confront them without checking I had the right ones?’

  Tony waved one of his hands across the man’s face. ‘Look again,’ he suggested. ‘These aren’t the robots you’re looking for.’

  The man seemed suddenly uncertain. He shivered uncomfortably under the intensity of Tony’s gaze. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘Perhaps these aren’t the robots I’m looking for.’

  ‘We aren’t?’ said Vid.

  ‘You aren’t,’ said Tony.

  ‘Fine,’ said the man distractedly, but the tableau remained.

  Tony’s agreeable smile suddenly dipped. ‘Now, if you’ll just let us pass.’

  ‘Sorry.’ The man snapped out of his daze and stepped aside. Tony walked on past, the robots following. Ben paused to watch Tony’s retreating head with momentary curiosity before hurrying to catch up.

  ‘What happened there?’ he demanded once he had reached Tony.

  Tony looked at him with immaculately emotionless features. ‘I persuaded him to go,’ he said.

  ‘How?’ Ben waved his hand in an imitation of Tony’s earlier gesture.

  ‘I have certain facilities.’ Tony took Ben’s key and opened the door to the suite.

  Ben remained standing again as the robots filed into the room. ‘Facilities?’ he said to nobody in particular. He glanced back, but the man in the suede coat had gone. Tony smiled enigmatically and motioned for him to enter.

  ‘What facilities?’ Ben pursued the point as he entered the room. Vid looked at him his face a picture of relief – literally. ‘I suspect they’re the kind that come in easy to handle denominations,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I saw something in Tony’s hands when he waved in the man’s face.’

  ‘Did you manage to count it?’ asked Riff.

  ‘No,’ said Vid. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing. I just wondered what we were worth.’

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Tony’s voice betrayed no sign that he had paid attention to the speculation about his methods. The band looked at him. ‘I think it best we move on tonight,’ he said.

  ‘I thought you’d persuaded him to go,’ said Ben.

  ‘Some forms of persuasion are temporary in nature. I suspect he will be back.’

  ‘So you think we should just pack up and leave? What about calling the police?’

  ‘I don’t believe that would help.’

  ‘So that’s it? We just go?’

  Tony said nothing. There was a rasping metallic sound. It took a moment
for the band to realise it was a sigh from Nutter. The big robot looked mournfully around at his opulent surroundings.

  ‘I w-was looking f-forward to l-living it up,’ he said.

  ‘I was just looking forward to getting some sleep,’ said Vid.

  28

  The rear elevator was considerably less elegant than the main one – a plain metal room with a panel of buttons – but Riff, more comfortable with the absence of muzak, settled into a corner and leaned his head on the wall.

  Vid seemed somewhat less relaxed. He rolled into a convenient spot by the door and pressed angrily the button for the ground floor. ‘I’m getting a bit bored of this,’ he complained.

  ‘I thought this was what touring was supposed to be about,’ said Ben. ‘Adventure, excitement, a different city every night.’

  ‘It seems to be a different city every half an hour.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why they call it going on the road,’ said Keys.

  ‘More like going on the run.’

  Ben scrutinised the bassist intently. The robot’s face was often surprisingly expressive, making the human wonder if this wasn’t the result of some kind of software problem. Humans usually had to make an effort to mask their emotions. ‘Why are you so upset about this?

  Vid’s electronically etched eyes rolled slowly upward. ‘Oh,’ he mumbled. Then, after a pause: ‘it just seems a little too arranged, that’s all’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, take tonight. The one night we see a decent hotel we don’t get to stay in it.’

  ‘You think he arranged this to avoid having to pay for the rooms?’

  ‘You think he wouldn’t